Philosophy
by usakiwigirl
Summary: From A to Zed, Ianto Jones can categorise his relationship with Jack. Introspection abounds.


_Just a quick collection of drabbles, one for each letter of the alphabet. I needed something to kick-start my writing again._

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><p><strong>Arrhythmia<strong>

He was fit, that much was obvious. He knew he was. All the running meant he couldn't help but be a candidate for the British track and field team, if offered the chance. Both sprint and long distance. Hell, he could probably even qualify for long jump and high jump if he tried.

But this. This, with Jack. This was going to kill him. He was sure of it. His heart was pounding fit to burst right out of his chest. The beat was off, and Jack was doing his level best to make damn sure it was never going to be right again.

But what a way to go.

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><p><strong>Burglary<strong>

Another bloody office. Jack and his fucking obsessions. Staples, paper clips, binders, pens – bulldog clips. Jesus, the fucking bulldog clips. And the copy machines. In the two short years he'd worked in Cardiff for Jack, he'd put in no less than four requisition forms for new copy machines, all because of Jack and his 'obsessions'.

And honestly, even with the backing of Torchwood, and his expert hacking skills - and Tosh's more-than-expert hacking skills (not that he was ever, even under pain of torture, going to ask her to put them to use) – he really, really didn't need another charge on his record to wipe out.

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><p><strong>Champion<strong>

It never failed to amaze him, that even after more than one hundred years on Earth, Jack was still upbeat and positive. Willing to stand up for all mankind, despite how monumentally fucked up humanity seemed to be. Sure, he had his down moments on occasion, usually after making one of those decisions that nobody else on the planet had the balls to even attempt.

But it was with no surprise that he watched him, six months after his death, as Jack stood at the top of a hill outside of Cardiff, despair radiating like a physical presence that kept even Gwen at bay, touch his wrist and look up at the sky for his passing ride.

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><p><strong>Duck<strong>

He made it all the way through Primary school without letting any of the teachers know about the bruises. In Secondary school he successfully hid his liaisons with both Bethan Jones (no relation) and Daffyd Williams – and how the hell he managed that, he wasn't sure, as he'd been with both at the same time. Secrets between two were hard enough to keep. Secrets between three were nearly impossible to maintain.

But hiding from Jack, or rather, hiding Lisa from Jack – that was killing him. He wasn't at all sure he could do it. He'd managed it so far, but it was only a matter of time before Jack ferreted his deepest and darkest from his soul.

And really, he wasn't even sure he was trying all that hard to stop him.

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><p><strong>Eavesdrop<strong>

He didn't stay in the past. Never. Not even after Lisa or the cannibals, or even Suzie. He didn't know Jack's intimate sleeping habits, not really. The man swore up one side and down the other that he didn't need sleep, anyway. And judging by the fact that he was always up and prowling about the Hub whenever he came in, no matter the time, he was inclined to believe him.

But after his return, things changed. No words. Just a look. A silent plea. Stay. Please. So he did. And he listened, while Jack slept. He didn't know if this was a new thing, the talking, or something Jack had always done, but it made his heart ache in new and uncomfortable ways.

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><p><strong>Forward<strong>

Jack was gone. Just… disappeared. Dead three days, and then gone. Christ, he wanted to be so fucking angry, but he couldn't find the energy in him to drag that much emotion to the surface. Not about his sometime lover who'd unceremoniously outed him in front of the team without so much as a by-your-leave, then fucking _**walked out without a goddamned fucking word.**_ Okay, so maybe just a little angry.

No use dwelling on it, however. The Hub was a fucking mess, looking like Abbadon himself had wandered by and swiped a hand through just to mix things up a little. It was going to take all his energy just to sort the paper. There wasn't even room in his life for Jack Harkness, not any more.

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><p><strong>Garrulous<strong>

'_Not much of a talker, Jack…'_

Truer words were never spoken, not by him, at least. But watching Jack lying there in that hospital bed, tubes and wires sprouting from him like some child's idea of an art project, when he should be up and about, commanding the room just by walking in, had opened a floodgate that he hadn't even known existed. Once he started, he couldn't stop.

And now, watching Jack as he dressed, his examination by Stella Courtney over, he found himself still wanting to spill words like water. Pour them over his skin and watch them soak in, saturate all the pores and rehydrate every layer.

The difference was, now he wanted to use his hands and his tongue instead of his vocal chords.

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><p><strong>Hurdy-Gurdy<strong>

One. Only one. That was all he'd been able to save. The boy – yesterday, he'd had a family, presumably loving, and now he was an orphan. Nobody. He didn't even know if he had any other relatives to take him in. He couldn't bring himself to look. He couldn't. It hurt too much. To know he failed. If only he'd been faster. God, just that little bit faster – and Jack had been on at him to lay off the fags, too. Jesus, he should have listened.

Except he knew that he was running the fastest he'd ever run, even better than in school, when they'd wanted him to run for Cardiff, and the only thing he was interested in was running from the local coppers.

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><p><strong>Insane<strong>

Prerequisite for the job, really. He really only had to look around to see the proof staring at him in the face every morning as he served the coffee around the conference table. There was no way anybody could handle the stresses of the job if a general level of instability wasn't present to a certain degree, he was sure of it.

But voluntarily locking oneself up in Providence Park, to include any and all medications administered by the staff, merely in the name of on-going alien investigations – well, that most definitely qualified as the textbook definition of certifiable.

Thank fuck he had good company.

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><p><strong>Jackpot<strong>

He never really expected to have much in life. Sure, he left the Estate as soon as he could in the hopes he could do something better with his life than his father, but still. Even with Lisa, he wasn't expecting more than a happy home in the suburbs with his wife and two-point-three kids, one cat, one budgie and one dog.

This… whatever… with Jack, however, felt like someone had both turfed him out of his comfortable flat onto the street in nothing but the clothes on his back, and handed him a million pounds to do as he wished.

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><p><strong>Keyhole<strong>

He lost track of how many times he walked into Jack's office, intent on his purpose and then backing out at the last minute. It wasn't like Jack didn't already have access – had, in fact, had access since his very first day working in Cardiff.

This was different, though. This was him, inviting Jack in. Not just for the evening. Not even for the night. More. To leave stuff behind. Clothes, toiletries – underwear. Just as he did at the Hub. Mutual cohabitation.

The key gleamed bright in the middle of the blotter when he finally rallied his courage.

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><p><strong>Lipstick<strong>

He didn't miss the eye make-up. He didn't miss the lingerie. He didn't miss the soft skin, or the curves, or the sweet smell, or even the gentle swell of full, pillowy boobs to bury his face in at night. Well, not much, anyway.

But looking down at Jack kneeling at his feet now, he was starting to reassess everything. His red, red lips were stretched wide in a parody of a smile, pigment and saliva smearing together as he moved, dragging his teeth softly along sensitive skin.

He didn't miss much, not really, but maybe the lipstick could stay.

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><p><strong>Magnetise<strong>

He'd tried, really he had. After Lisa, and not just because the very sight of the man had made him see red. He knew it was for the best. Distance. At least emotionally. There was no way to avoid him at work, because he was never leaving Torchwood, at least not on his feet. He could work with Jack, but anything else could only lead to disaster.

But it didn't matter. It never mattered. Everything he did led straight back to Jack. Like he was the centre of every maze. All roads lead to Rome. All paths lead to Jack. He should just accept his fate, embrace his destiny.

Torchwood was going to kill him anyway. Might as well go out sated and happy.

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><p><strong>Nonchalant<strong>

They all thought him the perfect drone. Never fazed, never ruffled, always able to function no matter the problem, however insurmountable it seemed to the rest of the team.

Only Jack knew how hard he worked to maintain his façade. Only Jack saw him come unravelled at the end of a long day, or a long week of long days. Only Jack knew how to bring him down from a tirade of self-recriminations and accusations of non-existent self-incompetency.

Only Jack knew how to undo all his carefully constructed barriers and leave him bare, then build him back up to face the next challenge.

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><p><strong>Orthography<strong>

To the rest of them, it made no difference if the X'xxlian sphere came first in the Archive listing or the Aa'aa cube. But to him, it mattered. Sure, at first glance, the choice was an easy one; after all, 'A' before 'X'. A no- brainer. But factor in the multiple variables, like weapon or toy, medical or entertainment, sexual or biological – not to mention the cultural differences between the races themselves, such as which was more warlike, therefore more dangerous to Earth and its citizens – and the decisions became much more difficult.

And then there were the secure Archives. Those required an entirely different system of cataloguing that taxed even his highly organised brain.

God help any future Torchwood Archivists if they so much as _attempted_ to rearrange all his hard work. He'd be back to make Abbadon look like a fucking walk around the park.

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><p><strong>Perfidy<strong>

It wasn't easy, ignoring the pitying looks, but after a while, he no longer noticed them. Or at least, no longer paid them any attention. With any luck, they'd all stop if he refused to acknowledge their stares.

It wasn't that he didn't know why, either. Jack was out. Again. Three nights in a row, now. Coming in the following mornings smelling of cheap perfume and wearing a smile best left at the door of the local brothel. It would be degrading, to the say the least, if he didn't know exactly where he'd been, and why, and with whom – and just how much he'd enjoyed himself as he watched.

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><p><strong>Quiescent<strong>

It was moments like these that made him thankful to be alive. To send up prayers to a god he wasn't even sure he believed in anymore; that he survived Canary Wharf, and Lisa's second death, and Jack's forgiveness, and the cannibals, and every fucking nasty thing that the Universe wanted to throw at them every single day.

All so he could lie in bed at night to watch Jack sleep. Just catalogue his beauty. The sweep of his eyelashes across his cheeks. The dimple in his chin. The strangely hairless skin that covered a body that should, by every galactic right, be illegal.

It was moments like these that made him glad he worked for Torchwood.

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><p><strong>Repent<strong>

It was unforgiveable, really. After all that they'd been through, after all the times he'd turned on Jack, betrayed his trust, _used_ him, for fuck's sake, for his own selfish reasons, and still the man let him back into his base, his home, his heart. But this… This should really be the last straw. Jack should retcon him for sure. He really should.

Only he wouldn't. He was right this time. He knew it. There was no way in hell Gwen was going to let this one go. She needed to see for herself just what it was that happened to those that the Rift returned. Jack wasn't cruel on purpose. It ripped him to shreds every time. She needed to see it for herself. Personal growth was the only way.

And a good cup of the best brew in his repertoire would help Jack on his journey.

* * *

><p><strong>Scythe<strong>

Death really did seem to stalk him. From early childhood, it shadowed his every move. First his grandparents – just vague, hazy memories now. Then his Mum, not too many years later, followed soon after by his Dad. After that, it was just him and Rhi, making do the best they could until he could get out, leave the Estate and make his way to London, where it was all supposed to be different. Only it wasn't. Even there, Death made his miserable appearance and ripped out his heart.

And now, back home in Cardiff, Death was still stalking him. This time, the bastard was laughing hysterically, not content to visit just once in a while and dig at the gaping hole in his chest. No – he stopped by at least once a week and shoved a burning pitchfork in and twisted, cackling gleefully as he crouched over the lifeless form of the only thing that made his own life worth living.

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><p><strong>Tell<strong>

He didn't let his emotions get the better of him, not in public. Hell, not even in private, not if he could help it. If he did anything that the rest of the team could in any way construe as 'losing it', chances were he did it deliberately. Everything was calculated, nothing was left to chance. No move left unaccounted, the perfect chess master.

Except Jack. He never figured on Jack. Well, he did at the beginning. Jack was the target from the very start. But after Lisa, the goal was to stay out of the way, not become embroiled in any more games. Jack, however, knew every trick in the book, every clue, every nuance, every subtle action possible and before he knew it, the man could read his every move before it was made.

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><p><strong>U-turn<strong>

He couldn't really pinpoint the exact moment in time when his feelings did a complete flip from hatred to… well, not love, exactly, but certainly something more than like. It wasn't the fairies, although the turn must have already started at that point, as he wasn't feeling the urge to pull a knife when Jack placed his hand on his shoulder.

Could have been during the debacle with the alien Mary. Although seeing the pain that Tosh experienced brought all of his own, recent torment right back to the surface, kind of negating any positive feelings towards Jack.

Most likely it was Brynblaidd, and the fucking cannibals. Jack to the rescue on a bloody tractor. Honestly, what wasn't there to lo—like about that?

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><p><strong>Vigil<strong>

It wasn't him who sat over Jack's body for three days. It wasn't him who washed him clean, stripped off the dirty clothes and dressed him in the plain gown for cold-storage. It wasn't him who stroked his face, pressed warm lips to cold, ran fingers through dark hair… Whispered words of love and hope in ears that couldn't hear. It wasn't him. But it should have been.

It was him who straightened all the paperwork on the desk. Who filled out the death certificate. Who prepared the cold-storage drawer. Who packed up all his personal belongings and carefully put them away so that _he_ could find them again when he woke up. Because he would.

It didn't matter that it wasn't him that spent three sleepless nights on the cold stone floor. Because it was him that he kissed when he woke up.

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><p><strong>Wardrobe<strong>

Well. This was a bit of a bit of an issue. Somehow, without actually knowing how, he'd managed to move into Jack's bunker, with half his suits and shirts hanging neatly next to Jack's trousers and waistcoats, ties snugged up with Jack's extensive braces collection.

And vice-versa. Staring around his tidy flat – well, what used to be his tidy flat – the unmistakeable signs of domesticity not initiated by him assailed his senses. A coffee cup left on the side table - sans coaster, of course. A paperback carelessly tossed on the coffee table, open to the last page read, spine bent uncomfortably… and was that one of _his_ Ian Fleming books? What the fuck? And when the hell did Jack find the time to read, anyway?

Clearly, he wasn't keeping Jack busy enough in the other rooms of his flat.

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><p><strong>Xanadu<strong>

It didn't exist. Couldn't, in his experience, exist. Everything he'd been through, from early childhood, through all his adult life, had taught him that the concept of an idyllic, exotic, luxurious place – paradise - was completely out of reach. Oh, of course it existed; St David's Hotel and Spa was just down the road. For a kid from the Estates, that was pretty bloody exotic. But it was also definitely and irrevocably out of reach. Therefore, it didn't exist. Shangri-La, as it were.

But any time, any place with Jack… well, that was a different story all together. Jack made it special. Even just the quick ones, the desperate, life-affirming clutch-and-grabs in the dark of an alley had a special glow all of their own.

And the long, slow, languorous times, the entire days spent enjoying each other from head to toe – well, Milton had it wrong. Not lost at all.

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><p><strong>Yearn<strong>

This thing was Jack would be the death of him. It wasn't healthy, not for his body, not for head and most definitely not for his heart. But he couldn't find the strength within to stop. And he was honest enough with himself to know that even if he did have the strength, he still wouldn't. He was the iron shaving to Jack's magnetic pole.

He could no more pull away from the man now than he could stop breathing voluntarily. The only thing that would take him from Jack now would be death itself – and even then, he was pretty damn sure he'd still be sucked in by his gravitational pull. Jack might outlive any and all other living things in the universe, but he would be right there with him.

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><p><strong>Zero (in)<strong>

The first time took a little work; watching the Hub, cataloguing the movements of the team as they came and left, judging strengths and weaknesses, and matching records purloined from the ruins of One with personal observations, and choosing the right man for the job. Plans made and executed with precision an SAS soldier would cry over.

The second time took less finesse and more balls of steel; judicious use of casual arm brushes, lingering glances and a well-brandished stop-watch. Not letting a single hint of his pounding heart-beat leak onto his face took all his effort, but the smile on Jack's face made everything worthwhile.


End file.
